


Local Talent

by antumbral



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alley Sex, F/M, PWP, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 16:11:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antumbral/pseuds/antumbral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the beginning of a bad joke: a photographer and a monster hunter both walk into a bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Local Talent

**Author's Note:**

> I'm reposting older work that I've done, so that it will have somewhere to live that's not LJ. This was originally written for [porn_battle](http://asylums.insanejournal.com/porn_battle/5443.html) over at IJ.

It's not your usual scene: thick wood paneling and glass mugs that probably survived the Great Fire in 1871. It's every movie-set Irish pub you've ever seen, but it's in the middle of Chicago, just outside the art district and miles away from cool.  


Your usual scene is more martini than lager, more dance floor and cutthroat VIP rooms than pool tables. You're here on business, ostensibly -- meeting an agent who swears that his client was raised working-class but has the body to walk Givenchy or Yves. The girl was unimpressive, she might do for LA fashion week later, but she'll never open in one of the important cities. No, your meeting is over, and the reason you've stayed is bending over a pool table, in jeans that are just a hair too tight to hang fashionably low on his hips and a long sleeved knit shirt that's too old for intentionally showing off.   


It's putting on a show anyway, though -- play of murky lights over spare angles of muscle in his shoulders. He's flirting, turning his head sideways to flash a grin at the entirely ordinary girl who stands beside him. Those lips weren't meant for runway, only photographs do justice to that sort of delicate facial structure. 

You indulge yourself with an image of him in a Calvin Klein campaign, stripped down to black boxer briefs for contrast against his pale skin, reclining against a mussed bed and staring down the camera like he's angry at the intrusion. Or maybe in a Stetson ad, something like the Tom Brady shoot that would show off his arms and those shoulders on a background of classic cars and road dust.   


He stretches up towards the ceiling abruptly (flash of flat stomach, thin trail of golden hair between jeans and shirt) and says something to the girl he's been flirting with, maybe an offer to go get her a drink. Something about the angle of his spine makes up your mind for you -- you don't indulge often, but tonight you're in the mood for something rough, something that will leave scars and dirt on your eight hundred dollar slacks and bruises in places you'll feel when you step into Vogue tomorrow to negotiate.   


He's at the bar when you walk up, but the bartender hasn't taken his order yet. Perfect. You grab him by the stretched out neck of that shirt, drag his eyes forcibly to your own, then let him watch as you sweep your gaze down his body, focusing on mouth, nipples, crotch. When you meet his eyes again, he's curious -- not yet committed, but willing to play along. You step in closer, grind yourself just a little into the slim cradle of his hips. "Yeah?" you ask, and neither of you doubts for an instant what you're asking.  


"Oh, yeah," he murmurs, and lets his eyes slide to your mouth when you lick your lips. Perfect.  


"Then come on," you say, and tilt your head towards the side door, an alley outside that opens to the street. He follows. At the mouth of the alley there's a black car that reminds you of your Stetson ad fantasy, but that's all you get to see before he crowds you up against a wall and you yank his mouth down. He smells like motor oil and something spicy, and he makes a noise deep in his throat that has you biting down on that sculpted jaw.   


He fumbles for a minute with the fastenings on your blazer, then gives up and shoves his hands under both blazer and camisole, finding your breasts and squeezing hard. One hand runs down to the waistband of your pants, cups your ass and jerks you hard against his crotch.   


"Fuck," he gasps and you cut him off with a "Yeah," smile right into his ear and voice as dirty as you know how to make it.   


"I don't have a condom," he says then, and you kind of love him for trying to be sensible, but that's not what you want right now.   


"Here.” There’s one in your pocket and you hand it over for him to deal with, too busy figuring out the flies of his jeans. The wrapper crinkles, and that seems to be the limit of his control; he grabs your wrists and spins you around.  


"Put your hands against the wall and keep 'em there," he says and plasters himself to your back. He works your pants down quickly, lets you step out of one leg to give him some space to work, then pushes his own down. You can feel his bare skin against yours when he covers your hands with his own, sets his teeth against the nape of your neck.  


"Last chance," he says. "Say yes, need to hear it--," and you're not even thinking when you open your mouth, "Yeah, yeah yeah _yes_ , god _damit_ \--".  


One hard push and he's inside you, not even pausing before he pulls back and fucks into you again -- hard, punishing pace. His left hand supports your torso, wrapped around to cup your breast, and his right slips between your legs. “Tell me when I get this right,” he licks into your shoulder, and you wiggle around to help him find the best spot.   


His thumb presses hard over your clit, ”Yeah, yes, fuck right there, _god_.” You feel his amusement in the power behind his hips the next time he pushes into you. “Like that, huh?” and you slam back into the next thrust just to shut him up.   


From there it’s all hot breath and desperately sexy, barely contained noises. The feeling’s nothing at all like the sex you’re used to; it’s like you’re clawing towards orgasm, snarling and fighting for it. He pushes right back, keeps your hands pinned to the wall, growls and bites and gives exactly what you need.   


When you come it’s like surfacing from deep water, gasp so hard it stings in your lungs. Your head goes back as a reflex and barely misses his nose. He turns his face into your arched neck, mutters something low and obscene, grinds his thumb harder into that perfect spot on your clit _god_ and shudders, still.   


For a moment it’s all panting breaths, minds catching up with your bodies, taking stock. “Jesus,” he huffs and pulls away from you, already dressed by the time you readjust your bra and pull on your pants. You laugh just because it feels so good, blood still singing. He grins back, electric and giddy, more than a spark of danger still riding the air around him. If you had a camera in that moment, he’d be on the largest billboard in Times Square by morning. Photographers wait lifetimes to see that kind of vicious energy in a smile.   


“Buy you a drink,” he says, and tilts one eyebrow in challenge, still laughing. You nod and follow him back inside. Perhaps you should scout the local talent more often.


End file.
